


A Brotherly Touch

by linndechir



Category: Fast & Furious 6 (2013), Fast and the Furious Series, Furious 7 (2015)
Genre: Fantasizing, M/M, Pre-Canon, Reunions, Touching, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 02:00:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5649559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/pseuds/linndechir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Almost a year after they last saw each other, Deckard comes home exhausted from his latest mission. Owen has a hard time keeping his hands off his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Brotherly Touch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fallencrest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallencrest/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [[授翻]A Brotherly Touch](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11426658) by [deeanne26](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deeanne26/pseuds/deeanne26)



“You look like shit,” was the first thing Owen said when he walked into his quarters after a particularly dull briefing to find Deckard sitting on his bed. He'd tried to go for flippant and realised he hadn't quite managed even as the words left his mouth. 

It wasn't that he hadn't seen Deckard in worse shape – after school yard fights that Deckard had always won, but not without his fair share of bruises and cuts, after he'd been shot once or twice on a mission and Owen had visited him at a military hospital – but the sight still took him aback. He hadn't seen Deckard in almost a year, but his brother looked a good five years older than the last time they'd met. A closer look made Owen realise that this might have simply been due to the deep, almost black circles under his eyes and the rough stubble that covered his cheeks and chin, which looked more like he'd simply been too tired to shave than like any deliberate attempt to let his beard grow. Even Deckard's eyes, usually bright and alert, looked tired when he raised his head to look at his brother.

“I'd return the compliment, but you'd sulk,” Deckard said. He didn't smile, but his eyes softened a fraction. Owen didn't think anyone else would have noticed the difference, but he'd had a lifetime of experience in reading Deckard's stone-faced expressions.

“When did you get back?” Owen asked – casual post-deployment small talk while his eyes scanned his brother. He didn't notice any obvious injuries, though Deckard's posture was a bit more slumped than usual, but he was sure that Deckard had lost some weight since the last time he'd seen him. His shoulders were still as broad as ever, but there was a certain gauntness to his face that hadn't been there last year. 

“Earlier today.” Deckard ran a hand over his shaved head, rubbed the back of his neck. “They already debriefed me, then told me to take some of my leave.”

Owen got the whiskey he kept in his room from the shelf, poured them both a glass and handed one to Deckard. His brother's fingertips were cool when they brushed against his, and he didn't move an inch when Owen kept standing right in front of him, just a tad closer than was necessary or appropriate.

“You look like you need it. What shithole did they send you to this time?” he asked. Obviously he knew that the answer was classified, but it wasn't as if that had ever stopped Deckard from telling him. He didn't always tell Owen where he'd been, more often than not he didn't, but it had never seemed to have anything to do with whether or not Deckard wasn't _supposed_ to tell him. More with just how taciturn and secretive Deckard felt like being on any given day, or with whether he actually wanted to talk about a mission.

“Does it matter?” Deckard replied and took a slow sip from his whiskey, savouring it far more than Owen did, who simply downed his glass. Deckard looked exhausted to the point where Owen half expected him to pass out right there, and that was somehow more unsettling than seeing him injured had ever been. Like a fast car that refused to start up, a tank that had run out of fuel and stuttered to a halt.

“I suppose not.” Owen's fingers twitched around his glass. He wanted to touch Deckard, wanted to retrace the familiar line of his jaw and squeeze the back of his neck, wanted to feel his ribs under his hands to see if any of them were broken and brush over every inch of Deckard's skin to check for injuries. It was an irrational thought. If Deckard had been injured, his wounds would have already been taken care of, but it was one thing to know that and another to check for himself.

But they didn't touch unless they were fighting, and while the strength of Deckard's punches, the way he'd move and shift his weight would have told Owen everything he needed to know, he found that he had no desire to start a fight with his brother now. Even the faint idea that he might actually have a chance to win for once in his life didn't tempt him – there was no triumph in seeing Deckard exhausted because of somebody else, and if anything it just made Owen wish he could shoot whoever had caused any of this. It was only a small consolation that Deckard had most likely already done that himself. Owen wasn't used to this kind of helpless, aimless anger. He certainly wasn't used to feeling protective of Deckard, and wondered if this was how Deckard had felt every time he'd finished a fight his little brother had started. Probably not quite, since Owen had actually needed his help back when he'd been a child, while there was nothing Deckard needed Owen to do now, not even patch him up.

After another moment's hesitation Owen put down his glass and did what he'd wanted to do since he'd walked into the room. He touched his fingertips to Deckard's cheek, and there was something strangely intimate in that tenderness neither of them ever showed the other. Sure enough Deckard looked up in surprise, but he didn't move away. A second passed before he turned his head ever so slightly into the touch, and Owen slowly ran his middle finger along Deckard's jawline.

“You really look like shit,” he repeated rather than asking if Deckard was all right. This time his brother did smile a little.

“I'll be fine,” he said. “I haven't slept more than two hours a night for the past week. I just need two days in bed, some real food, and a bottle of Burgundy.”

Owen laughed softly. His mind wandered to Deckard's fingers curled around a stem of a wine glass, to the way his smile only got darker after a few glasses, the way his eyes would become less guarded. Owen had always liked drinking with his brother, or sometimes just watching him drink. He would have tried to get Deckard drunk just to see if Deckard would finally _do_ something then, but he knew him far too well to think for even a moment that Deckard would let his guard down that much.

“Then what are you doing here?” he asked. “You're the one who always says I have no taste in wine.”

“You don't.” The corner of Deckard's mouth quirked up, and when Owen wanted to pull back Deckard's hand went for his wrist, moving not quite as fast as usual, but his grip was no less firm. Owen swallowed and kept his hand where it was, pressed his thumb against Deckard's chin. There were a lot of things they didn't talk about, and where exactly they were deployed to was probably the least important of them. Owen knew he should have let it go, but Deckard's fingertips had slipped underneath the sleeves of his uniform jacket and his shirt, pressed into Owen's wrist, and that touch alone was enough to make Owen feel a little light-headed, a little reckless. He let his thumb slide up until it almost touched Deckard's bottom lip, and when even that met no resistance, he raised his other hand to Deckard's head as well, ran it over the back of his head down to his neck and squeezed gently. Deckard's muscles were so tense that Owen winced in sympathy. His work in the Mobility Division rarely required him to lie in wait in uncomfortable positions, or to track someone through the wilderness for days without a break, but he'd had enough of that in his training to know how sore Deckard had to be all over.

“So why are you here?” he asked again, more quietly this time. Deckard was still holding on to his wrist, and his eyes were sharp again when he met Owen's.

“I haven't seen you in almost a year, little brother,” and that was no kind of reply at all, not when this had hardly been the first time their respective deployments had kept them apart for so long, and Deckard had never hurried back to Owen like this, before even getting a good night's sleep. And yet there was this odd note in the way he'd called him 'little brother', there had been for a long time. Owen used to hate it when he'd been younger, when Deckard had truly seen him as nothing more than his stupid little kid brother, but something had shifted in Deckard's tone over the years, and somewhere along the way Owen had almost started liking it. Or maybe he simply liked the way Deckard was looking at him, like he couldn't take his eyes off him now that he was back.

Owen flinched when he felt Deckard's left hand brushing against his side, a light tug on his uniform jacket before Deckard's hand slipped underneath it and came to rest on Owen's hip. He didn't do anything more than that, just held on to him the same way his right hand still held on to Owen's wrist.

“Are you saying you missed me?” Owen asked with a small smirk, but the levity in his voice fell flat. Deckard's hands were distracting, his cool fingers were growing warmer where they touched him, and Owen's thumb kept pressing against the stubble of Deckard's chin. He knew what that stubble felt like against his cheek and his neck, knew it from countless fights, some of them for sparring, others born from actual arguments, most of the time about things neither of them could remember afterwards. They'd always fought more for the sake of fighting than anything else, because the only alternative would have been fucking, and Owen had never been sure what would happen if he pushed his brother too hard – if Deckard would fuck him through the floor or break every bone in his body. If he'd maybe do both. Owen had never quite had the courage, or rather the recklessness, to find out.

But he'd always had trouble being sensible under Deckard's hands, whether those hands had punched him or cleaned his wounds afterwards, and maybe it was simply that Deckard looked so much less dangerous like this – certainly not unable to kill a man if he had to, but maybe too tired to bother. Owen's thumb slid up the last bit that separated a brotherly touch from something else, brushed lightly over Deckard's bottom lip, and Owen all but held his breath for a few seconds while he waited for Deckard to react, to get angry or just to turn away and leave. But his brother stayed right where he was, his head still cocked a little to the side to lean into Owen's touch, and his fingers had not left Owen's wrist.

“After the last months I could think of worse places to be,” Deckard said, his eyes still on Owen's, and he let out a slow, deep breath when Owen tightened his grip on the back of Deckard's neck. A part of him, the part that loved fast cars and parachuting out of planes, wanted to grab him harder still, pull him closer, force his mouth open with his thumb and go for possibly the only _worse_ idea than trying to get Deckard to fuck him bloody. Just the idea of it was heady, of Deckard still looking up at him while his lips were wrapped around Owen's cock, his stubble rasping over soft skin, his fingers digging into Owen's hips, his arse, and maybe afterwards he'd still flip Owen over, spit Owen's own come onto his arse, slick him up with it so he could fuck him.

He felt himself getting hard even as he realised that there was no way Deckard wouldn't notice, the way he was sitting in front of Owen. And yet Owen didn't want to take his hands off his brother, missed the moment where he could have turned aside, poured them both another drink and be done with it, and just a moment later he felt Deckard's gaze sliding down until it stopped at his crotch. His face was unreadable for once, even for Owen. But then Deckard pressed his thumb into Owen's hip, painfully hard through the fabric of Owen's shirt, hard enough to bruise, and if that wasn't enough, the bastard licked his lips.

Just as quickly Deckard's hands were gone, he leant back as if to get away from Owen, the tension breaking between them as he rolled his shoulders back and cracked his neck.

“I need to get some sleep,” he said, as if the last ten minutes hadn't happened. On most other days Owen would have been happy to pretend the same, but he hadn't seen Deckard in too long, and every time he saw him again after a long separation was like a violent reminder that no distance in the world could make him want his brother any less. He would have grabbed Deckard's hair if there had been any hair to grab, and went for his chin instead, held on tight so Deckard couldn't pull away.

“You fucking bastard,” he hissed. Maybe he should have gone for that fight after all, should have enjoyed having the upper hand for once instead of feeling sorry for Deckard, instead of fooling himself into thinking that there even was such a thing as a _brotherly_ touch between them.

Deckard rose slowly from the bed, ended up standing so close to him that Owen could breathe in his scent. He'd never been more aware of how much taller he was than Deckard, how he'd have to incline his head just so for his lips and his teeth to meet Deckard's, and he still refused to let go of his brother's chin.

“Are you saying you want me to leave?” Deckard didn't push Owen away, and for all that he still looked exhausted, there was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. Owen blinked, dumbfounded.

“I wasn't aware you were planning to stay.”

“Your bed's as good as any.” Deckard's smile looked darker on his gaunt face. “Wouldn't be the first time we've shared one.”

“First time in about twenty years,” Owen snorted. He was starting to wish that Deckard had simply walked out on him, but instead his brother turned his head and pressed his cheek against Owen's palm one last time before he stepped back, and this time Owen let him go reluctantly. Deckard didn't bother to pull off his boots before he lay down on the bed, legs stretched out, eyes closing almost immediately. Under any other circumstances Owen would have been offended that his brother was so much less worked up than him, but then under normal circumstances Deckard didn't look like he could have barely stayed on his feet for another minute. For a second Owen considered following him to bed, straddling him and getting his hands around Deckard's throat because that sure as hell would wake him up again, but he'd waited for too long to make do with any less than Deckard's full attention.

“Fine, sleep here, if you have to,” he said and did his best to ignore the way Deckard's lips quirked for a moment. “I'm going to get some dinner.”

It wasn't a lie as such, he really hadn't eaten yet and he was nowhere near tired enough to try and sleep in one bed with his teasing bastard of a brother, but mostly he needed the privacy of a shower for a few minutes before he could head to the mess hall and behave like himself without thinking about Deckard sprawled out on his bed, Deckard so tired he'd let his guard slip, Deckard's hands on his wrist and his lips against Owen's fingers. 

Owen drew in a sharp breath as his eyes raked over his brother's supine body, and more for his own sake than for Deckard's he switched off the light when he reached the door. Deckard already seemed to be sleeping, his breathing slow and even, and exhausted or not, Owen doubted that there was anyone else in the world in whose presence Deckard would allow himself to pass out like this. Nor anyone else in the world Deckard would have voluntarily shown himself to in his current state.

He'd already half opened the door when Deckard's voice called him back, “Owen?”

“Yes?” 

“Be here when I wake up.” 

Deckard's voice was low and already thick with sleep, and Owen couldn't make out if the words were meant as a promise or a threat. Both possibilities made the hair on his neck stand up and his cock twitch in his uniform. He almost asked Deckard why, but he knew he wouldn't get an answer out of him.

“Sure,” he said, cocky like he had no doubts about what Deckard wanted, and left. In a way it was true – he had no doubts about that, only doubts about whether his brother would finally man up enough to admit it. Owen intended to make sure he would.


End file.
